


Making a Fire

by basilique



Series: American Nights [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, American Slang, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Bathtub Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Boys In Love, Bubble Bath, Bucky Barnes Feels, Crying, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, Great Depression, Heavy Angst, Hotel Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Moaning, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Praise Kink, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution, Protective Bucky Barnes, Romance, Smut, Switching, Top Steve Rogers, faucet fucking, it stands on its own, lots of feelings, rent boy bucky, sooooo many bucky barnes feels, there will be a hopeful ending I promise, you can read this without reading the first in the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7727284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basilique/pseuds/basilique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no point in being nervous. Bucky has no choice but to sell his body tonight. </p><p>Money is the only fire that can keep Steve's sick body warm.</p><p>And Bucky has no kindling but himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brooklyn Cold

**Author's Note:**

> The theme song for this fic is "The Boxer" by Simon and Garfunkel.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3LFML_pxlY

_Five minutes._

Steve has been in that room for five minutes. 

The hospital is still lighted like high noon at this time of night. It’s nearly four in the morning, and the waiting room is silent. The only movement in the room is Bucky’s pacing, his whole body going back and forth through the room like a pendulum as he waits. 

_Fifteen minutes._

An old woman sits in the corner, a handkerchief covering her hair, her pale, deeply lined face troubled and her hands clamped around a handful of coins like a vice. She closes her eyes as though resigned to her wait. A wedding ring is nearly grown into her gnarled finger, and Bucky thinks that she must be waiting for her husband. 

The wall between the emergency room and the waiting room is soundproof. Not a hint of sound escapes to tell Bucky what is happening to Steve, or to tell this woman what is happening to her husband. 

_Twenty minutes._

Outside, the swirling snow beats against the window relentlessly. The wind whines like a hungry ghost. Distantly, below the wind, Bucky hears the siren of an ambulance, which cuts off in the middle of a wail as it pulls into the hospital’s parking lot below. 

_Half an hour._

It had all happened so quickly. One minute, they were under the tarp that they had stretched across their alleyway like a roof. The snow piled up around them, but they were alright under the tarp, clasped together in one sleeping bag, naked for body heat. Their barricade of trashcans hid them from the street, and protected their tarp-fort from the wind. 

_Thirty-two minutes._

Bucky had awoken with a little yelp of pain. Steve’s knee had jammed him in the groin. But before he could grumble his annoyance at Steve, he’d realized that Steve was coughing. 

Steve often woke up to a small fit of coughing in the night, and Bucky would rub his back to warm it and help him through it, but this was different. The coughs racked Steve’s whole body, and they made a violent sound like a train horn choked and clogged with coal.  
The coughs subsided long enough for them to make eye contact and exchange a look of fear, and then Steve was coughing again, his hands scrabbling over his rib cage as though he could make his lungs expand by tugging at them. But each inhale was a horrible long, wheezing strain. 

Their life on the street had made Steve’s small frame even thinner, even weaker. And the New York City winters weren’t exactly a balm for his asthma, what with the smog and the frigid night air. 

In fact, Bucky had anticipated that something like this might happen eventually. And he knew what he had to do, even if Steve wasn’t going to like it. 

Bucky scrambled out of the sleeping bag and grabbed his clothes, which were piled on top of the sleeping bag for extra warmth. 

“Stay calm, Stevie,” he said, as he stepped into his pants. He threw his shirt on and slipped on his boots, not bothering with socks. “Don’t worry, I got a plan, just keep thinkin’ ‘bout breathing.”

He grabbed a hat and scarf from the pile of salvaged junk at the foot of their make-shift bed, and put them on Steve, before lifting Steve up, sleeping bag and all, and staggering with him out of the alleyway and into a whirling blizzard. 

_Forty-five minutes._

Steve wasn’t strong enough to put up a fight about going to the hospital, once he realized where Bucky was taking him. He couldn’t even draw enough air to speak. But Bucky felt his body tense when they got to the block. 

They both knew they couldn’t afford a trip to the hospital. They had nothing, not even 40 cents for a gallon of milk. And they had nursed each other through illnesses and infections with nothing but snowmelt or moonshine plenty of times since their back-alley life began. But there was no avoiding it this time. Steve needed a doctor. And Bucky didn’t care what he’d have to do to pay the bastard. 

_Fifty-six minutes._

Where the Hell is Steve?! Bucky stuffs his hands in his pockets, pulls them out again, wrings them a little, swings them at his sides, makes them into fists and releases them. He paces, back and forth, back and forth. The old woman in the corner stares down at the floor, her eyes empty and sad, as though she is too tired even to worry whether her husband lives or dies. It occurs to Bucky that he should say something to her. He should sit down beside her and try his best to comfort her while they both wait. 

_Fifty-seven minutes._

He makes to do it. He takes a stride toward her, but before he reaches her, his eyes fall on a poster on the wall beside her. It is Uncle Sam, stern and serious, his eyes fixed on Bucky and his finger pointed straight to Bucky’s heart. _I Want YOU For U.S. Army._

_Never._

Bucky could never, _would_ never, leave Steve. Steve couldn’t get by on his own, not here, not the way they were living. Somehow, the poster makes Bucky angry, and he wants to smack Uncle Sam for his bravado, his presumptuousness, his total ignorance of the way the American people are living; destitute, hopeless, with dust and snow in the lines of their faces. 

His hands curl into fists.

 _Fifty-eight minutes. The door to the emergency room opens._

Bucky spins around so fast his head spins. “Doctor?”

A young, red-haired nurse or paramedic approaches him, a clipboard in his hands. 

“Your pal will be a-okay,” he says, and gives Bucky a moment to gather his composure and hide his shaking hands. “But you came at the right time. It’s bacterial bronchitis, exacerbated by asthma. He was having trouble breathing, blacked out in there. But he should be all-set now, just as long as he takes the medicine the doc gave him, once a day.”

Bucky nods. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” He clears his throat and looks down to hide the mist in his eyes. 

Then he realizes that this interaction is not over yet. Bucky’s relief is to be short-lived. 

“How much does he owe you, then?” Bucky asks, trying to sound matter-of-fact. 

“Well, I gotta tell you," the young man says, with a quick glance that takes-in Bucky's stained and frayed clothes, "these costs can add up pretty fast. Looks like all together you owe the hospital...two hundred and fifty dollars." 

Bucky's stomach twists. 

"That includes the fee for the medicine itself," the young man continues. "Then there’s an additional cost for the doctor’s visit. And the cost of his time in the emergency room, of course. And that was—let’s see--” 

He looks down at the clipboard. “Fifty-eight minutes.”


	2. The Docks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is never going to know about this.

Bucky had shaken the nights accumulated snow off of their tarp without waking Steve, kicked his boots on, his coat, and worn fingerless gloves. 

He’d left Steve asleep, bundled up against the brick wall at the back side of the bakery, which warmed as someone inside fired up the kiln and began to bake. 

He had allowed himself an indulgent moment to watch Steve’s sleeping form. The color had come back into Steve’s face with the doctor’s medicine, half a night of sleep, and now the warmth from the bakery. 

Steve’s chest had been rising and falling normally. He would be alright on his own for the day. They usually split up during the day, working the streets with their separate talents; Steve making friends, bargaining and trading, and Bucky eavesdropping and stealing. He wasn’t especially proud of his survival strategies, but they were better than….well, _better than what he was going to do tonight_. 

The day had passed quickly, and without much success. He pocketed a handful of jerky at a deli and a small tube of Vaseline in a drugstore, but there were no well-off looking folks out in the streets to pick-pocket, and he didn’t have the heart to steal from the hassled women who herded their children through the snowdrifts, or the men who waited in lines just for a place to sleep. 

Whenever the cold became unbearable, he ducked into a corner-store or a bar for warmth, and made a great show of perusing the merchandise, so that he wouldn’t be ejected as a bum. Mostly, he bided his time until the late afternoon, when he slipped quietly back to their kip and left a note on the makeshift bed, for Steve to find when he returned in an hour or two. _“Meet me at the Blumstein Hotel after dark. Bring everything we've got.”_

He had repressed the urge to scribble something else, something like, “I love you” or “don’t worry.” No, it was best to give Steve no further indication that he was doing anything out of the ordinary. 

Steve is never going to know about this. 

Bucky had set off through the snow, down to the end of their alley, where a chain-link fence barred him from a perpendicular alleyway. He climbed the fence and leapt over the top, landing with his boots deep in the snow on the other side. He had learned his way around back here, through a network of industrial alleyways. People came here to buy and sell drugs and moonshine, or to trade other black market goods, stashed away in in brick nooks and crannies and all but inaccessible to the coppers. 

The crime Bucky needs to commit back here is small, no smuggling or trading involved, just a tiny act of arson. He strikes a match on an empty beer crate, and then another, when a cold draft blows it out too soon. When the flame bites, Bucky watches it lick the wood black. 

He watches the crate burn to ashes as the first streaks of sunset red creep into the narrow crack of sky that he can see from the bottom of the alley. He picks up a clod of snow in one fingerless-gloved hand, and uses it to stamp out the embers. Then he breaks the ashes apart in his fingers. He clomps over to a frozen puddle a little way down the alley, and bends over it. 

Carefully, Bucky wipes the soot around his eyes. He rings them, like he's seen on women who stand in the doorways of the red light districts. His eyes jump, a striking blue-green reflected back at him from the frozen puddle. Satisfied with the effect, Bucky rubs some snow through his long hair to get some of the grease out. Then he cleans his fingertips with some snow, and stands up. 

_It’s time. Not much else he can do to prepare. Except, maybe…_ An idea occurs to him and he knows at once that he's got to do it. _Who knows if his first client will give him time?_

He swings his ragged shoulder-bag around and pulls out the small tube of Vaseline that he had managed to pocket in a drug store that morning. With a quick rueful glance up and down the deserted alleyway, he undoes his pants, squeezes some Vaseline onto two fingers, and sticks his hand down the back of his drawers. He greases himself with his cold fingers, around his rim and inside of his body. He preps himself a little, gently stretching and pressing, trying to take deep breaths. 

_There's no sense in being nervous. The more his body tenses up, the more this could hurt._

He sends his mind back to the last time Steve touched him like this...a few nights ago, under their tarp, his fingers strong and gentle and so, _so good_ , gently working Bucky open and twisting inside of him, his kisses muffling Bucky's groans. 

Yes, _that's_ what he's going to think about tonight. That's what he's going to see in his head, as he lets a stranger fuck him in the back seat of an automobile, or up against an alley wall. And there's no point in stalling here now. 

He sets off for the docks, where the men go to be with other men. 

It's not right, _God no, it isn't fair,_ but money is the only thing that can pay hospital bills, or keep a sick boy out of the winter streets. Money is the fire that keeps a sick body warm. 

And Bucky has no kindling but himself.


	3. The Blumstein Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has every intention of taking what he’s done to his grave. 
> 
> But of course, it takes Steve all of thirty seconds to figure it out.

Bucky has every intention of taking what he’s done to his grave. 

But of course, it takes Steve all of thirty seconds to figure it out. 

He watches Bucky intently, his brow furrowed, as Bucky dishes-out cash to the lady behind the counter in the hotel’s small lobby. 

“Two nights, please,” he tells her, and when she hands him a key, he thanks her quickly, then turns on his heel and clomps up the stairs before Steve can ask him where he got the cash. 

Once they’ve climbed the stairs, gotten down the hallway, and unlocked the door to their room, however, Steve corners him. He pushes the door shut behind them, clicks it locked. And then rounds on Bucky, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. His expression is fierce, but Bucky can see straight through it to the terror underneath. _He's already guessed, damn him._

“Bucky,” Steve says, and his voice shakes a little on the second syllable. “Where did you get that money?” 

“Pinched it,” Bucky says determinedly. He had prepared for this. 

Steve doesn’t even blink. “You’re lying.” 

“Naw! I pinched it off a fella at the docks. Reeled him in, you know, said I’d do him a few favors. He started getting handsy; I picked his pocket and bolted!” Bucky slaps on a cocky grin and raises his eyebrows, welcoming praise. 

He’s a good liar. And it's a good lie. That one would have worked on anyone but Steve. But _ahhh fuck_ , the punk shakes his head, not taken in for even a moment. 

“Bucky,” he says again, and it’s so full of pain and pity that Bucky’s composure starts to slip. He’s been doing a great job so far of keeping it together. 

But he wants desperately to tell Steve what happened. He hates himself for it, but he wants to tell Steve every detail. Steve is his goddamn best friend, after all, and Bucky would give a whole lot to just let this story out. _But it would hurt Steve like hell to hear it._

Truth is, Bucky had been pretty lucky. The actual sex had been alright. He’d been approached by a decent fella who’d taken him out of the cold, into a fancy automobile with the heater purring. He had believed Bucky’s story that he was straight and a virgin, desperate to support his family, and paid him extra. He'd taken some time to prep Bucky beforehand, and he was pretty gentle inside Bucky up until the end, when he started swearing and gasping, thrusting harder into his pleasure until he came. 

It's not like there hadn't been any pleasure in it for Bucky. It had been strange, a little overwhelming, but it barely hurt at all, and it had felt plenty good at times. No, overall it was a total success. _And it sure worked._ Here they are, safe in a heated room with a bed and a _shower_ , for Chrissake, golden for two whole nights. They are safe, warm, in the lap of luxury, even as the frost outside starts to bite at the window. His plan had _worked_ , better than he had even hoped. 

_So there is no reason to feel like curling up into a ball._

And there is _no_ reason to tell Steve the details of what happened. Steve already knows what Bucky did and why he did it. Steve is already blaming himself for Bucky's act of desperation; Bucky can see it in the tension in his jaw. Hearing the details will be torture for him. _You keep your mouth shut, Barnes. You take this story to the grave._

But Steve takes a deep breath, and unclenches the fists at his sides. He reaches out for Bucky's hands, and guides him down so that they are both sitting on one of the hotel beds. "I want you to tell me what happened, Buck. If you're okay to talk about it. I don't want you to bury it, or try to just deal with it on your own." Steve fixes bright, fearless blue eyes on Bucky and squeezes his hands. He smiles a little. "I'm stronger than I look, you know. I can carry us both tonight." 

Something in Bucky's chest twists open. He slumps forward and lets his forehead fall against Steve's shoulder. Steve cradles him in his arms.


	4. Cleaning Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky leans in and rests his forehead against Steve's. "Just did it with a stranger, yeah, but that's... kinda why I wanna do it with you, Steve. You know?"

The little hotel bathroom fills up with hot steam, the mirrors glazed over and the tiles on the walls sweating. Bucky watches the tub fill around their naked bodies in amazement. Perfect, clean water, like ice melt, but already hot. They’re bathing in _drinking water_ , and the luxury of it is almost too much to bear. 

After Bucky had talked out his catharsis, telling the whole story to Steve, Steve had held him for a long time and then suggested a bath, to brighten both of their spirits and get the lingering cold out of their fingers and toes. 

They hadn’t dared get naked together in months, between the cold and the threat of being spotted together in their alleyway. Not that they had been particularly chaste, there under their tarp. They’d rubbed-off on each other through their pants, unzipped flies and put cold hands down each others’ briefs, even fucked silently inside their sleeping bag, their bodies clinging together and their quiet, desperate moans stifled in each others’ mouths. But Bucky hasn’t actually _seen_ Steve naked since they escaped from conversion therapy. 

And holding Steve like this in the hot water, properly warm all over for the first time in _months_ , and feeling so much of Steve's skin pressed to his own, _well_ , it's puttin' some ideas in his head, that's for sure. 

They have to empty the whole bathtub after soaping and rinsing each other: weeks worth of accumulated grime and soot from their skin and hair had left the water looking like olive juice. But they refill it, dumping in some shampoo under the faucet so that bubbles swell into a froth on top of the water. 

The fella in the motorcar hadn’t bothered to finish Bucky off after fucking him, and he's starting to really feel the frustration of that now, blood pulsing in his cock under the hot water. He's hard; it's hidden by the layer of bubbles, but Steve's eyebrows rise in bemusement when his thigh brushes against Bucky's cock under the water. "Well hey there." 

"Hey Stevie," Bucky grins as he rolls around to straddle Steve. He leans in to kiss him, and runs sudsy fingers over Steve's scalp, leaving fluffy globs of bubbles in Steve's hair. 

Steve flicks his eyes downward, suppressing a smile. "That for me?" 

"All yours, Babydoll," Bucky quips. "If ya want it." He grins, but something in his tone sounds empty, less cheerful than he had intended. 

Steve wraps his arms around Bucky's neck. He bites his lip, and fidgets a little in a way that tells Bucky he is hard too. But there's a crease of concern between his eyes. 

"You sure, Buck? I mean, you just had to do it with a stranger, do you maybe wanna...take the night off, or somethin'?" 

"Naw," Bucky says instantly. But Steve tilts his head, looking worried. 

"Ya sure?" he asks again. 

Bucky leans in and rests his forehead against Steve's. "Just did it with a stranger, yeah, but that's... kinda why I wanna do it with you, Steve. You know?" 

Steve makes a little noise in his throat, which sounds simultaneously like a sound of pain and a moan of lust. "Yeah," he says gruffly. "Okay, Buck, I gotcha. Let me make you feel good, alright?" 

Bucky presses his cock against Steve's under the water. He shudders and moans out his wanting against Steve's neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger ending! The next chapter will be the real porn part ;)


	5. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve runs his hands down Bucky’s thighs to rest them on his knees. “Want you to imagine,” he says, “that it was me in that car. I was a rich fella, out for a night drive...feeling real hot, and a little blue. I was drivin' around the docks, just looking at the fellas there, when I saw you...” He draws Bucky's hand to his lips and kisses it seriously.
> 
> “I gotta have you,” he murmurs. “Soon as I see you. So perfect. Just standing there in a streetlight, with the snow falling around you, you’re killing me." He runs a hand down Bucky’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief mention of vomiting

Bucky pushes hungrily against Steve. They kiss, eyes closed and mouths open. 

Their chests press flush together, hearts pounding, and the foam in between them spreads, tickling at the base of Bucky’s throat and his sides. 

The warmth in Bucky’s fingers and toes reaches deep, surprisingly pleasurable, like a hand caressing a part of him that hasn’t been touched in months. His whole body feels like it is thawing, surrendering to the steam and the warm red and gold fleurs-de-lis wallpaper, the hot water, Steve’s hot mouth. 

Steve puts his hands on Bucky’s hips and coaxes him up, out of the water, and onto the rim of the bathrub. It’s a deep, claw-foot tub, with enough of a rim for Bucky to sit balanced while Steve runs his hands over Bucky’s thighs and gazes up at him, eyes soft. 

“Want you to imagine something for me,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky nods happily. It’s easy to just let go when Steve takes charge, like lying back in the shallows to be lifted by oncoming waves. 

Most often, Steve wants Bucky to take charge of him. When they had their own place, he used to beg Bucky to throw him around in bed. He wanted Bucky to hold him down and make him struggle as hard as he could, squirm, fight and lose. He even wanted Bucky to hit him during sex; the only time Bucky could remember ever saying no to Steve. 

Steve is on fire when he’s submissive. But he is also naturally gifted with a confident, gentle authority. And when he uses it like this, Bucky tends to very quickly become a writhing, moaning mess. 

Steve runs his hands down Bucky’s thighs to rest them on his knees. “Want you to imagine,” he says, “that it was me in that car. I was a rich fella, out for a night drive...feeling real hot, and a little blue. I was drivin' around the docks, just looking at the fellas there, when I saw you...” He draws Bucky's hand to his lips and kisses it seriously. 

“I gotta have you,” he murmurs. “Soon as I see you. So _perfect_. Just standing there in a streetlight, with the snow falling around you, you’re killing me." He runs a hand down Bucky’s chest. 

“Now imagine it real clear, Buck,” he instructs."I pulled up and you climbed in my car and you were _mine_ , at least for a few minutes. I warmed you up real slow. One finger at a time, just like this.” 

Steve slides Bucky’s left middle finger into his mouth. He keeps his eyes on Bucky as Bucky inhales sharply, his free hand floating up to rest on his own cock. 

Steve smiles and switches to Bucky's ring finger, sucking hard and hollowing his cheeks around it. Bucky's eyelids flutter closed. 

Steve sucks each of Bucky's fingers, finishing by scraping teeth lightly over his pinky. Then he puts his hands on Bucky's knees, and gently guides Bucky's legs open. 

“What a _perfect_ boy I’d found,” he murmurs. He leans in to kiss the inside of Bucky's thigh. “I took my time with ya. Opened you up nice and slow." 

It had taken Steve almost a year to get comfortable with dirty talk. He used to break off mid-sentence, smoldering with embarrassment and burying his face in Bucky’s shoulder. He had probably expected Bucky to laugh at him. But when he realized that Bucky wasn’t laughing, wasn’t laughing _at all_ , he got bolder and bolder, until he was adorably cocky. 

Bucky could sleep with a hundred other men and women—hell, maybe now he _will_ —but his body would still be _Steve’s_ ; his pulse quickening at the sound of Steve's breathing, his limbs going limp under Steve’s hands. A thousand memories of pleasure and love live in the heat between their skin. And when Steve's mouth closes around his cock, it feels so good that Bucky leans back against the wall behind him and groans, his fingers twining into his Stevie's hair. 

Steve swallows his cock down deep, and sucks it like a husband, his hands gripping Bucky's hips hard enough to hurt. 

Steve’s hair is a little wet, his face and neck glowing with the heat of the water all around his body, and he moans into Bucky's cock. Bucky moans back, his head rolling against the wall. 

Steve sucks him in deeper, deeper than he should. He chokes himself a little on Bucky's cock, his eyes raised slavishly to Bucky's face. 

"Careful," Bucky whimpers as Steve gags against him. It wouldn't be the first time that Steve had gone too hard on Bucky and ended-up making himself puke. 

Steve gives him a little grin and pulls back, unabashed. He tugs on Bucky's hips and guides him back down into the water, into his lap. He kisses Bucky hungrily for a few moments, pressing his tongue into Bucky's. Then he turns Bucky's head to whisper into his ear, “And when I'd finished getting you ready for me, I _took_ you. Right there on my back seat." 

Bucky whimpers a little and allows himself to be steered toward the end of the bathtub. 

Steve turns the faucet back on. 

He tests the temperature with his hand. He adjusts it, testing it repeatedly with his hand, until it is lukewarm, thundering into the half-full tub. 

And then he guides Bucky farther forward, guides him to put a leg up over the edge of the tub. 

Bucky, suddenly understanding what Steve is planning, feels a hot shiver run through his whole body. “Oh God, _yeah_ , Stevie,” he breathes. 

Steve swings Bucky’s other leg over the side of the tub. He kneels behind Bucky, his arms around him, and then, slowly, guides Bucky’s hips forward into the rush of water from the faucet. 

“Shhh…” he murmurs into Bucky’s hair when Bucky starts moaning. 

The current rushes over Bucky’s hole, already sensitive from being fucked. 

“ _Ohhhh_ , Stevie…” 

“That’s right, Buck,” Steve gasps out. “This is how it felt when I fucked you in that car.” Steve’s fingers carefully stretch and hold Bucky open, so that some of the waterfall splashes inside of him, sending ripples of pleasure through his whole body. 

Bucky twists and lets his weight fall back against Steve, who holds him up, panting with sympathy pleasure. 

Bucky rocks his hips, making the current massage his cock, the water beating warm and heavy between his legs. 

“That’s right, baby,” Steve gasps, altogether losing the thread of the story he was telling. “Make yourself feel good…God, _Buck_ …” 

Steve props Bucky up carefully with his arms under Bucky’s armpits. Then he wraps his arms around Bucky’s chest and pinches his nipples with wet, hot fingers. 

“ _Ahhh…_ ” Bucky moans. He lets his head fall back against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve kisses him breathlessly on his burning temple and forehead. He rolls Bucky’s nipples between his fingers, merciless as Bucky twists and shudders against him, every exhale a long moan. 

Bucky rocks his hips so that the water pressure runs up and down his cock a few times, then lets it beat on his perennium for a moment, before he curls his hips up to expose his hole again. 

Steve reaches down to grab at Bucky's cock, swollen so hard and heavy, and rubs him, stroke after practiced stroke, gasping hotly against Bucky’s ear. 

The water beats on Bucky's sensitive rim, stretches him where the stranger’s fingers and cock already stretched him. The pressure of the water holds him open, thunders against him and into him, right where the stranger pried him open, licked him, plowed him, used him. Bucky’s head rises as he gasps, and falls back onto Steve’s shoulder again as a whimper that is almost a scream tears out of his throat. 

“ _Steve…_ ” 

Spasming pleasure shoots through his body, and he jerks, thrashing back against Steve. It starts in his raw hole, swells in his cock in Steve’s hand. And he comes, keening, loud and limp and completely, helplessly Steve's. 

Steve’s arms shake as he holds him up, and he presses kiss after desperate kiss into Bucky’s hair. “ _My boy_ ,” he gasps. “ _My Bucky, my_ …”


	6. A Lover's Quarrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not weak, Bucky, alright?” Steve’s nostrils flare. “And for that matter, I got something to tell you. I’m coming with you tonight. To the docks. And I don’t care if you don’t like it. It’s not safe, you going it alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Discussion of antisemitism and Nazism, citing real political events in 1939
> 
> Mention of events leading up to Japanese Internment in the US

Late afternoon the next day, Steve and Bucky traipse down to the hospital. The street is slushy with dirty snowmelt, but a cold sun is shining. 

The kindly, tired-looking receptionist at the hospital takes the five dollars and twelve cents that Bucky proffers, and marks it down in her book. It’s their first payment on the medical debt from Steve’s fifty-eight minutes in the ER. As the debt will only get steeper with interest, they’ve agreed to pay it off as quickly as they possibly can. 

But of course, that doesn’t leave a red cent for food. 

Steve reaches into Bucky’s deep pockets and pulls out three frozen bread rolls, which he had fished out of the trashcan in their old alley on the way to the hospital, for dinner. 

They sit down on the curb to gnaw at them. 

Steve flips out the day’s newspaper, which he had found alongside the bread rolls, and flips through it, reading the headlines aloud to Bucky. He stops at an article titled, “1939: A Year in Review”. 

_In review?_ Is it so close to New Year’s already? Chanukah is long over and Bucky did nothing for it; not even lighting one measly candle. And he gave Steve nothing for Christmas. All their lives he has tried to spoil Steve on Christmas, to make up for the absence of Steve’s father, and, later, of his mother too. But this year he hadn’t had the time to think of it, wouldn’t have had the money to follow-through with it. His stomach twists with a nasty wave of guilt. 

He wants to reach out and wrap an arm around Steve, pull him close and hold him. But they can’t do that in public. So instead he scoots closer to Steve on the pretense of reading the article. Steve, reading his mind, holds the newspaper up a little higher and they steal a quick kiss behind it, bumping cold, soft lips. 

“Don’ worry, we’ll do something next year,” Steve murmurs, looking fiercely into his eyes. “Put lights on our damn cardboard box if we hafta.” 

Bucky nods, willing himself to smile. And they quickly go back to perusing the paper as a hunched older man walks by. 

Bucky skims the “Year in Review” timeline: 

>   
>  _MAY: MS ‘St. Louis’ sails for Cuba carrying 937 Jewish migrants from Germany; passengers are denied access to Cuban soil; later denied refuge off coast of Miami by the State Department because of a lack of immigration visas, and sent back to Germany_
> 
> _AUGUST: Physicists Albert Einstein and Leo Szilard write to President Roosevelt, warning of efforts by German Nationalist “NAZI” party to develop ‘atomic bomb’; imploring that United States make efforts to develop this technology first_
> 
> _SEPTEMBER: German Army Attacks Poland; port blockaded; Danzig is accepted into Reich_
> 
> __
> 
> _NOVEMBER: Shipments to Japan embargoed, surveillance of American Japanese centralized by F.B.I and Army G-2 Division_

__

Bucky pauses to look thoughtfully at Steve. “Why d’ya think all those Jews wanna leave Germany?” 

“I don’t know. Protest, maybe? Germany’s making a stink all over Europe.” 

Steve does not sound very confident in this theory, and it’s against his intuition; Bucky can hear that in his voice. 

“But why only Jews, then?” Bucky presses. “I mean, why not all sorts of people? And how come they don’t care where they end up? Seems kinda funny that they’re just as eager to end up in Florida as in Cuba…” 

“Yeah.” Steve pauses for a moment, his jaw tightening as he stares at the newspaper. “It doesn’t seem right.” 

Bucky watches Steve closely. He can see an idea forming in Steve’s mind, and it’s making him nervous. 

“Makes a fella wanna enlist, doesn’t it? See what’s really going on and help put it right.” 

Oh, _Christ_ , no… 

“Nope,” he says, much too quickly. “It sure doesn’t. You better just put that idea out of your head right now, before--” _Before you become determined to do it…_

“Before what?” Steve’s eyebrows crease slightly with hurt. “You don’t think I could handle the army?” 

“I’m not saying that.” Bucky feels a small surge of panic in his chest. “I’m just saying it’d be real rough conditions. Real hard on a body, and--” 

“I’m not _weak_ , Bucky, alright?” Steve’s nostrils flare. “And for that matter, I got something to tell you. I’m coming with you tonight. To the docks. And I don’t care if you don’t like it. It’s not safe, you going it alone.” 

Bucky’s palms are sweating, and his heart is hammering. But he is ready for this. He has already mentally had this fight with Steve. He had it this morning, as he watched the punk sleep, looking like a perfect, stupid, stubborn angel with his head on Bucky’s chest. 

“You know that’s not a good idea,” Bucky says, summoning all the patience he possesses, as he is going to need it. 

“Why the hell not?” 

Bucky takes a quick glance around and checks the volume of his own voice. They have to be careful; keeping this from looking like a lover’s quarrel to passersby. “I’ll be fine. I can handle a few creepy micks.” 

“I know you can. But these fellas are more than creepy,” Steve hisses back. “They’re willing to take advantage of you, even though they know you’re desperate and you don’t really want this.” 

“I can handle them. I had worse at HYDRA.* Tentacles all over me and I’m still here.” 

“Oh, so it’s alright for you to be in danger? Put your life on the line, but I can’t even _think_ about doing the same?” 

Bucky’s patience cracks. 

“Do you _want_ to get fucked by a stranger?” 

“I want to _help get us out of the debt_. I got us into it. So I don’t care what you say; I’ll go to the docks tonight with or without you, and work them ‘til I can’t stand up.” 

Bucky’s panic reaches a crescendo. Steve has that damn look. That damn look that Bucky fell in love with him for. The one that means he is not giving up until someone punches his lights out. Steve is not just saying that to get a rise out of him. He really means it. 

So Bucky steels himself, and he says something that he does _not_ really mean. 

“Steve, the whole point is that you can’t be out in the cold at night. Because you know what, Steve Rogers? It _is_ your fault we’re in debt. You wanna give yourself another asthma attack and get us deeper into debt, make us even worse off, just cause you’re too stubborn and toe-headed to listen to common sense and stay out of the fights you can’t win?” 

Steve deflates like a punctured balloon. 

Bucky wants to vomit. Because he’s _won_ , and they both know it. But no one should ever win against Steve Rogers on something like this. No one should ever be able to put out Steve’s fire like that. No one should ever use Steve’s own goodness to shut him down. It’s so twisted and wrong, but Bucky had no choice. It was either punch Steve’s lights out or let him run out and get himself hurt much, much worse. 

As the sun sets, Steve goes back to the hotel without a fight. And Bucky looks at his own reflection in the back window of a shop, as he circles his bloodshot and teary eyes with charcoal for the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: Bucky is referring to his time in gay conversion therapy at the Homosexual Youth Direct Rehabilitation Agency (HYDRA), not the HYDRA from canon
> 
> That fic is the prequel to this one, Part 1 of this series


	7. Sidewalk Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: references near the end to Bucky's experiences in gay conversion therapy, including a brief reference to forced injection of torture drugs

Bucky waits at the corner where the fish market meets the bait and tackle shop, leaning against his back against the brick and lounging in the lazy and sultry manner that he had observed on the women prostitutes of 7th Avenue. He really should thank them, because it is excellent advertising technique; a car pulls up almost instantly as its driver identifies what he is selling, and throws the side door open for him. 

Bucky figures he can probably use the virgin story with his first man every night, at least until people start recognizing him at the docks. It works tonight, at least, and the man goes pretty easy on him, especially when Bucky starts faking virginal noises of shock and incredulity. He manages to get a “first time” tip out of this man, just like the last one, and-- yes! It’s enough-- just barely, on the cent, it’s enough to book the hotel room for another night. They can pay this at the counter in the lobby tomorrow morning, and they’ll be in the clear for tomorrow night. 

Bucky could, he really _should_ , stay and take another man. That would give them a little bit to pay the hospital, and a bit to get some food. But Bucky’s heart hurts. He is anxious to see Steve, to hold him and be good to him after their fight. 

It’s weak, and he’ll wish he’d stuck it out, he knows; but he has to get back to the warm hotel room, and to Steve. He sets off along the sidewalk, toward the Blumstein. 

In the light of the street lamps, Bucky watches the snow falling in thick, heavy chunks. It has been falling since he got to the docks, but it is beginning to thin now; a late night chill is settling over the city, a cold too cold for snow. It is the sort of cold to steal your breath and burn your face, and Bucky walks more quickly as it descends, thinking of the hotel room’s warm bath water, warm blankets, hissing radiator. 

And then Bucky stops. 

A few yards away, huddled in a doorway at the edge of the sidewalk, are two figures; a man and a child. The child is tucked in close to the man’s side, his coat wrapped around her. Her little face is drawn with exhaustion, and she leans into his side searching for comfort, searching for enough warmth and softness to sleep. Her legs are splayed out underneath her at an odd angle. Bucky’s heart twists all at once, and his throat clogs with rage and sadness and pity; polio. The little girl has polio. 

He takes a few steps closer. 

The man, who must be the child’s father, is holding up a tin in his hand, tilted with exhaustion, and Bucky can see that there are only a few coins in the bottom. The man is gaunt and thin, with a graying face and dark circles under his eyes. He raises his head a little as Bucky approaches, and Bucky’s angry, piteous heart starts to beat harder. 

_He can’t give them a cent._ He has only the bare minimum of what he needs… If he gives them so much as a penny, he’ll have to go back to the docks… back into the cold, back into another stranger’s car. And the strangers will be rougher now, as the rougher men come out later at night. 

He stands perfectly still for a moment, his breath freezing and swirling before his face. 

He thinks, for just a moment, for reasons he wouldn’t be able to explain, about his childhood on these Brooklyn streets. He thinks about his early memories of dirty snowball wars, fat wads of chewing gum, bets and dares and oaths on honor. Playing jacks with Steve on the floor of his room, and standing up to defend him on the playground, in the hallway, in the bathroom, on the sidewalk; again, and again, and again, and again. 

He also thinks about the electric chair, and the straps that held him in it. He remembers Rumlow’s needle breaking his skin, Rumlow’s gloved hand clamped over his mouth. He remembers overwhelming pain injected into him on purpose; artificial, intentional, overwhelming _nausea_ … 

“Spare change, son?” 

Bucky kneels down beside the man and the little girl. 

He digs into his pocket and pulls out his wad of cash and handful of coins. He drops it all, every cent, into the father’s tin can.


	8. None So Gentle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: References to painful sex  
> and also to Bucky's experiences in gay conversion therapy

It is 3:19am when Bucky unlocks the hotel room door and slips quietly inside. 

Most of him is hoping that Steve will be asleep; that would make things easier. If Steve is asleep, Bucky won’t have to explain why he is back so late. He won’t have to distress him. 

But that selfishly vulnerable little part of Bucky is secretly hoping that Steve will be awake. Because he doesn’t know if he can bear the rest of this night alone. 

What Bucky finds is a wild-eyed, pale-faced, five-foot-two whirlwind of anxiety and dismay, very much awake and dressed and pacing the brightly-lit room. 

“ _Bucky_!” He launches himself at Bucky. “My God, _baby doll_. He grasps at the front of Bucky’s shirt, presses a hand to his cheek. “I’ve been so shook. _Sweetheart_. Why’d it take so long?” 

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand on his cheek and presses it to his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare ya.” 

His voice is shaking, his hands clammy and cold, and Steve doesn’t miss that for a moment. “What _happened_?” he demands. 

“I…I had to go with a lot of fellas.” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice even. He doesn’t look directly at Steve; he doesn’t dare, because there are tears welling up in his eyes. He can’t let Steve see them or Steve will make him let them out. “I made enough pretty quick, but then I had to give it away. There was a kid…” He shakes his head and swallows. “I don’t regret it. But then the fellas weren’t paying so much. And nobody’d believe I was a virgin, since I’d already had two guys, so I couldn’t get the extra money out of them that way, so I had to take four of them, and…” 

_And they were none so gentle as the ones before_ , he does not say out loud. 

Steve hugs him fiercely, and Bucky sees, over his shoulder, that Steve had been sketching earlier. He still does it sometimes, in the margins of newspapers or on the backs of flyers. He uses the charcoal from back-alley crate burning and Hooverville fire pits. Bucky loves that about Steve, that he's still creative, still sketches strangers with compassion, in spite of everything. 

Tonight's sketches, scattered on the bed on the backs of military recruitment flyers, are all of Bucky. Steve's charcoal strokes are thin, airy, hasty, as though he had been drawing very quickly, anxiously. It's Bucky in their old apartment, as he'd been before their luck failed. _Bucky at the mirror combing and slicking back his gelled hair; Bucky leaning on the fire escape railing, smoking and looking down at the city; Bucky in close up, biting his bottom lip roguishly and grinning down, as he must have looked to Steve when Steve was lying underneath him._

That was back when sex was simple and straight-forward. They loved each other, they wanted each other. So they did anything and everything to give each other pleasure. They watched the pleasure in each others' faces, and they wondered at it. Sure, they knew it was forbidden. But they also knew, with a wisdom beyond everything they had ever been taught, that is was good. 

Now, sex was a lot more complicated. There had been months of electric shocks and nausea pills, Rumlow standing over Bucky and injecting Bucky's body and his own with the same torture drugs, Steve's sacrifices and Bucky's selfishness and Bucky's selfish sacrifices, and freezing nights and fights and illness and that damn street corner at the docks. 

Sex is straight-forward with Bucky's clients now; a payment for a service. 

But now it is complicated with Steve. 

"Steve," Bucky says roughly, "I gotta ask you somethin'. I honestly can't explain why I want this right now, but will you...will you fuck me?" 

Steve's eyes widen. But his pupils dilate, too, and Bucky can tell that the frank request aroused him a little. 

"Buck," he says incredulously. "You just...you just had four fellas. Don't you wanna--?" 

"No," Bucky cuts him off. "I want you, right now. I'm sorry about earlier, Steve. I shouldn'ta said that thing about it being your fault we're in debt. I was trying to protect you, but I shouldn'ta done it by saying that. That was wrong." 

" _Living like this, can anybody really afford to be right?_ " Steve takes his hands. "I forgive you, Buck. Course I do. You don't have to have painful sex with me to prove you're sorry of something." 

"That's not why I wanna. I just...I wanna feel you right now, Steve. Please." 

He takes Steve's face in his hands, and they kiss with mouths open, until heated breaths turn into quiet moans, and they press each other back into the mattress.


	9. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> Masochism  
> Painful sex  
> Blood  
> Complicated emotions of guilt, desire, and vulnerability during sex

Bucky wraps Steve's hand against his own wrist, and presses it down to show Steve that he wants to be pinned. 

Steve's breathing is quick and heated. His anxiety over Bucky's lateness has turned into relief, which has turned into heady lust. But he is still hesitating a little, worried about Bucky's emotional state, trying to control himself. 

Bucky doesn't want him to control himself. 

"Take me, Steve," he murmurs. "C'mon, please..." 

Steve lets out a rough little noise in his throat, and his grip tightens on Bucky's wrist. He presses it into the mattress. 

He lowers his face to kiss Bucky's neck, to bite it a little, and Bucky lets his head roll, lets his back arch a little. 

He wants Steve to see his submissiveness. He wants Steve to want him desperately. 

Steve does. 

But somehow, he also wants Steve to take advantage of him. To hurt him, like the men did tonight. 

Why? To show him what happened? To share it with him? 

Just to feel it again? 

"More," Bucky gasps, as Steve kisses his neck, and Steve reaches down to fumble, hot and clumsy, with the buttons of Bucky's shirt. He opens it, running his mouth down Bucky's chest, licking over his nipples. 

He pulls the open shirt off of Bucky's shoulders, and Bucky twists out of it, throws it across the room. 

Steve is unbuckling Bucky's pants, and Bucky lies back, his chest rising and falling hard. He sets his hand on the bulge in Bucky's drawers and lowers his head, his eyes raised tenderly to Bucky's. 

Bucky's cock is tender, his balls a little stiffly painful from getting aroused, and then turned off over and over again during the night. He hasn't cum at all, and he needs to, but he doesn't _want_ to. He doesn't want pleasure unless it's taken from him, forced into him. 

Steve wants to be sweet. He wants to take Bucky's stiff cock into his soft mouth, suck him off and swallow him and tongue at his softness. 

It would feel so good, but good, and tender, and loving, are not what Bucky wants. 

"Fuck me," he gasps. "Stevie, please, please..." 

Steve moans. He doesn't _want to_ , in his mind, Bucky can tell. He doesn't want to hurt Bucky any worse than he's already hurt. But his body wants to, and it is defenseless against Bucky's ardent pleading. 

He grabs Bucky by the hip and flips him over. He scrambles for the Vaseline beside the bed. 

"You gotta tell me if it hurts, Bucky," he says fiercely. When Bucky says nothing, Steve grips his shoulder. " _Promise_." 

" _Alright_ ," Bucky says. "I promise." 

It's a lie. 

He can't remember the last time he lied to Steve, if he ever has. But he _knows_ it's going to hurt. And Steve will stop if he tells him so. 

Steve pulls Bucky's pants down over his ass, scoops his fingers into the Vaseline, and parts his cheeks to bring it hastily to his rim. He pauses as he feels how ready Bucky already is; how slick and open. 

"Yeah," Bucky gasps. "I don't need it." 

"You look sore," Steve says, his voice guttural and breathy. 

"Just a little. I can take it. I _need_ it, Steve. _Please. Baby._

Steve makes another growl-like noise in his throat, possessive, jealous, protective. He fumbles to undo his pants, and yanks out his cock. He rips open a condom and rolls it on. 

"Ready?" 

" _Yes._ " 

Steve presses inside of Bucky. They both moan as he slides in, quick and easy and hungry. 

It hurts a little. But Bucky wants more of it. More pain, more pleasure, more pressure, more movement. 

" _Ohhh,_ Stevie..." 

He presses his hips up, and Steve rises up so that he is kneeling behind him. Bucky moans, his face in the mattress, as Steve sinks into him from this better angle; pulls out, and sinks in again, harder. 

_"Ohhhhhh..._

"Ohh..." Steve echoes Bucky's moan, more softly, and reaches down to grasp at Bucky's hair. "Baby, yes..." 

" _Ohhhh..._ " Bucky can't stop moaning. He presses back onto Steve's cock, and Steve groans with dirty pleasure and love. 

His hand, still slick with lube, slides around Bucky's waist to rub at his stiff, sore cock. And it feels _so good_. He doesn't want to cum, but Steve doesn't know that, and he is going to make him. And _ohhhh..._ It only takes four strokes and he is cumming in Steve's hand, spasming with pleasure and gasping little cries against the mattress. 

Steve, riding the wave of Bucky's pleasure, fucks him harder, and it hurts, it really hurts now, but Bucky doesn't want him to stop. 

This is wrong. Bucky wanted Steve to use him, but he is the one using Steve. Using him for pain that Steve doesn't want to give him. 

And Steve is groaning with pleasure as he shoves into him, as innocent and devoted as he always has been. "Oh, _Buck_ oh..." 

But then Steve freezes for a moment, his cock halfway out of Bucky's body. 

"Buck," he gasps. "You're _bleeding_!" 

"It doesn't matter," Bucky gasps back. "Keep goin'." 

Steve is close to coming, Bucky can tell. He knows Steve's sounds, his breaths, like a favorite song. 

He wants Steve's hungry, selfish thrusts. _Wants_ Steve's pleasure to come out of his pain. 

But Steve is hesitating. 

"Don't stop, Steve," Bucky begs. "Please, I want...I _want_ to bleed for you." 

And he does, he really does. He wants to bleed for him and only him, only him, ever. 

And Steve moans with wanting at those words...but he is _pulling out_. 

"No," Bucky pants. "Don't stop..." 

But Steve has already rolled over onto his back beside him. He pulls the condom off and jerks in his own hand, on the edge of coming. 

But there's something he wants to say, and he struggles to get it out as he pumps in his own hand. 

"I'm not gonna hurt you, Buck. Not like that. There's... there's enough things trying to hurt you, and I...I will never be one of them. Never. Even if you beg me to, I promise... _Bucky_..." 

Steve's brow creases, and his blue eyes shine with tender, bottomless adoration. He cums, jerking desperately into his own hand, gazing at Bucky, moaning, and Bucky feels his heart swell and overflow with emotion. 

Tears sting at his eyes and clog-up his throat. 

So this is what he wanted. Not pain, not really, but this. 

For Steve to refuse him pain. 

Bucky sobs into the bed. 

Steve rolls over, wraps his arms around him. Kisses his wet cheek. "That's right. Let it out. I'm here, sweetheart." 

No one could afford to be right, living as they are. No one could possibly do the right thing. 

But they are both trying. And that, in their relationship, has always been what matters most. 


	10. Idaho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning:
> 
> References to gay conversion therapy, and the fact that Bucky was sent there by his parents, painful sex, and STDs.

Bucky wakes up late the next morning, and finds Steve gone. 

His heart speeds up. He throws the covers off of himself and goes to the window. 

The sky is bright; it is probably about 10:30 or 11 o'clock. 

That's alright, then. Steve has probably just gone to find a newspaper or something to eat. _He hasn't just up and left you,_ Bucky tells himself. _Relax._

Bucky lies back down, naked on top of the bed. He is hungry; very hungry, but he is used to that by now. A little later, when Steve gets back, they can go to drop some money off at the hospital, and dig up something to eat on the way back. He finds himself looking forward to it. He likes walking in the winter sunshine with Steve, with a task to do and the prospect of food in their immediate future. 

But he will have to go back to the docks tonight. It will be horrible: his ass is acutely sore this morning, and that's not going away any time soon. There's a high risk of infection too, he knows; if he was bleeding last night, that means there's some damage in there. And if some fella refuses to use a condom...Bucky could easily catch something nasty. 

Steve is gonna fight him on it for sure. He'll say all the things that Bucky has already thought, try to keep him from going out tonight. It could easily turn into another fight, the last thing in the world that Bucky wants. 

But he's gotta do it. There's just no way around it. They've gotta pay the hotel. 

He's gotta do it, and he's gonna have to do it every night, _God_ , for who knows how long? 

Bucky stares up at the ceiling, and the full weight of it makes the room spin. 

_He might have to do this for the rest of his life._

They can sleep outside in the summers, at least. But every winter, every winter he's gonna have to sell himself, until he's so damaged or worn out or diseased that no one wants to buy him anymore. 

And then what? 

He won't be able to provide for Steve; there's no other work available to do. Where could they possibly stay then? 

He won't be able to _sleep with_ Steve. That wonderful, magical world of pleasure that they've discovered together will be contaminated with pollution. Bucky's touch, however loving, will risk infecting Steve with something. And Steve will want to do it anyway; Bucky knows he will. But Bucky will never be able to give in to temptation, never make love to him again, or he'll risk _killing_ him. 

And if _Bucky_ dies of some horrible infection, what will Steve do? What will _happen_ to him? 

Bucky lies on the bed staring at the ceiling for almost an hour. His mind gallops off through a hundred different scenarios; all awful, and all, conceivably, possible. 

He feels as trapped as he had felt when he was strapped into Dr. Rumlow's electric chair. 

He used to take so much for granted. Before all of this happened, before his parents found out that he loved Steve and sent him to HYDRA, he'd never had the faintest idea... 

He'd been street saavy just for the fun of it, just as a part of his identity. He'd been handsome and charming just for fun too; not because he had to. He'd been so happy with who he was; he'd had so much time to _think about_ who he was, to refine it, to flourish in it. 

He'd had the luxury of self-reflection, of safety, of free time, of a little spending money...of a love that could be simple and pure, uncomplicated by danger and desperation. _God_ , he was the luckiest boy in the world... 

But there's no way back there. There's just no way back to the bare necessities of a good life. He's just got to do what he can, for as long as he can hold out... 

The door flies open. 

It slams against the wall with a loud bang, and Bucky practically jumps out of his skin. 

Steve leaps into the room, waving a wad of paper in the air. He has crushed it in his fist in his excitement, but he lobs it at Bucky. 

"Look! Look, Bucky!" 

Steve's cheeks are flushed with jubilation. His eyes are bright, very bright; he looks like he might be tearing-up with happiness. He watches, ecstatic and impatient, as Bucky unfolds the crumpled paper and reads: 

> _CIVILIAN CONSERVATION CORPS: seeking young men ages 17 to 24 for national service projects. Positions available in multiple states. Relocation allowance, housing in communal barracks, meals, and modest pay included. Serve your country and realize the vision of the New Deal. Speak with a recruiter to apply._

Bucky looks up at Steve, his mouth open. 

"This can't be real." 

"It's real, Buck, it's real!" 

Steve hops onto the end of the bed beside Bucky, stands up on his knees, grabs Bucky's face in his hands. 

"I was lookin' for somethin' to eat and I saw the recruiter by O'Leary's General Store. Thought he was with the military, so I went up to him, thinkin' I'd try my luck one more time. Thinkin' I had to; after last night, Buck...I couldn't stand to go on like this. I know you've got it a lot worse than I do, but that's just it; _I can't stand seeing you get hurt any more, Bucky._ I had to find a way to stop it, or I'd go crazy. So I went up to this fella and told him I wanted to go and serve my country and I didn't care what happened to me doing it. And he took my name and signed me up right away, for this Civilian Conservation Corps. And I told him I had a pal who wanted to come, and he signed you up too! All we gotta do is go in a week to the jetport, meet him and the other fellas at Terminal C." 

And then they are both talking at once, Bucky exploding with questions and Steve eager to tell him every detail, but both too excited to wait and listen. 

"But does it really _pay_?! And are there really _meals_?!" 

"They put you up with a hundred other fellas, and there's _food_ , and we can send money back to the hospital! We can pay it off like this, and then just keep working 'til we actually have something saved up! And there's a nurse in the barracks that can check you up--" 

"But how come they afford to pay a hundred fellas? How can they--?" 

"It's the government! It's the Roosevelts! They've got groups like this all over the country now; planting trees, fighting fires, trying to help people get back on their feet. They're sending us to the Dust Bowl; we're gonna plant trees to keep the dust from building up and turning into storms. Oh, it's so _important_ , Bucky!" 

Bucky catches him up in his arms. 

It is a blessing to see Steve's idealism come out, and more than that, his happiness. Bucky kisses his face, his hair, his neck. 

"When do we leave?" 

"Sunday, at 7am. All we gotta bring is a set of clothes and a toothbrush. Lucky, cause that's all we have. But they said they'll give us an extra pair of work clothes if we don't have 'em. And we're gonna go on a _plane_ , and think about it: we don't ever have to come back if we don't wanna. We could save up enough to buy some land, and dig a well, and--" 

Steve babbles happily against Bucky's neck, and Bucky holds him fiercely. 

_He will plant so many goddamn trees that FDR himself will want to shake his hand._

This is a chance; an unlikely, fortuitous chance, to change their whole future. It will be hard work. And it might take years to build up something they can call security. But he will put every drop of sweat he has into it. He will personally end the Dust Bowl if it means he and Steve can live a better life. 

They have a chance. They _have a chance._

Bucky doesn't know what it's like to live outside the city. But he's pretty sure he can get the hang of it. And that's something not to take for granted. He's tough, resilient, and a fast learner. 

Those are things he still has. 

He may not have much if he looks at it one way. But looking at it another way, he has a whole lot. He has a good brain, a healthy body, his youth, his street smarts. And, now, for better or worse...a hell of a lot of life experience. 

He is all the kindling he needs. And this chance is the only spark he needs. He can do it, he can make a fire. 

And there's one other thing that he has. 

And it's something that no one else has: 

Steve Rogers, clinging to him, brimming with hope and kissing him over and over again. 

"One more week, Bucky. We can get through it and then we'll _go_ , we'll go West and we'll figure it all out. I love you, Bucky. You're the bravest, best, noblest fella I ever... I love you so much, more than anything, I love you, I _love_ you, I love you..." 

In spite of everything, Bucky reflects, he still might just be the luckiest man in the world. 


End file.
